Ouroboros
by Starkiller
Summary: Drabbles. The Founders had many enemies; Vikings, giants & the terrible Unseelie Host to name a few. But when Salazar's mother, the Snow-Walker Gudrun, wages war on the country, the Founders will find just how harsh the winter can be. Salazar x Helga
1. Salazar Slytherin

**A/N:** I finally got around to starting this Founders' story, hurrah! I'm really not sure if I like this chapter, however, so feel free to be tough with your critique. I think I'm just utterly rubbish at writing emotional drama. Oh well, I really hope you like it. This takes place roughly in the year 978 AD (I drew up a Founders' Timeline – it's on Deviantart if anyone fancies a read). This works as a backstory to my present-day Harry Potter fic, "Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives", hence the title, but you don't have to have read that to understand this story.

Anyway, I hope you lot like mythology and folklore, because this story's rife with it!

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_A thousand years or more ago,  
When I was newly sewn,  
There lived four wizards of renown,  
Whose names are still well known:  
Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,  
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,  
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,  
Shrewd Slytherin, from fen._

- Goblet of Fire

_The fen and fell his fastness was,  
The marsh his haunt_

- Beowulf

**Ouroboros  
**Salazar Slytherin

Winter. A night of frost and hard moon.

There was a long hand in the darkness and in it was a knife. The blade was clean and twitched in the hard moonlight, as though eager to carry out the purpose it had been created for. The man who held the knife was very tall and very dark. His narrow black eyes were accustomed to carrying out deeds in the dim night.

Tendrils of night-time fog slithered after him, hiding the patches of snow that covered the treacherous fens stretching between the River Temes to the East and the kingdom of Wessex in the west. The air was sharp and bitter, each breath a knife stroke in his chest. His fingers had become stiff around the slender bone hilt.

The man, Salazar, made no attempt at hiding himself as he crossed the fens towards the man he was going to kill.

The man in question was sitting on the trunk of an upturned tree, the same placid smile on his face that he had been born with. The simplicity of his dress irked his would-be killer. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, and carried only a small seax at his hip – no cloak, no sword and nothing to show his status of wizard. Everything about him was perfectly normal. In the silver light, he almost looked like a ghost.

He soon would be, thought Salazar without smiling. He stopped a few feet short of the rotten trunk and gazed unsympathetically.

"I thought you might show," the man greeted him, standing. "It's been a while since we last met. I like your beard. Makes you look like a villain from the old tales. Was it Uther who told you I'd be here?" He laughed. "That fiddle-pated old dunderhead. I knew he'd draw the knife from my back some day. Oh, well. Have you come to kill me then, brother?"

Salazar hesitated. He would not let Sol see him flinch, the man – his twin – whom he had shared a womb with. And he had promised himself he would not smile until it was finished. Instead, he gave a slight tilt of his head and remained silent.

"I thought as much," said Sol, sounding remarkably wistful. He turned and stared across the fens. The fog stifled everything, made the night look shadowy and treacherous. "I knew you would catch up to me eventually, but I had hoped to keep the Grawny Man off my shoulder a little longer. More's the pity."

He had that vague, but pleasant tone in his voice and Salazar hated it. Hated _him_ for it. He lifted the arm that held the dagger so that the narrow blade pointed towards his brother's throat.

"You mock me, brother, even when you are facing death."

"Oh, no! I'm always serious about death," Sol protested in earnest. "Believe me, I'm quite terrified, only you see I'm suffering an abundance of fear right now. Once I've calmed down a little, I'll show you the dread you rightly deserve." He grinned.

"You are _foolish_," Salazar hissed vehemently, struggling to control the anger that shuddered through him. "You've always been foolish. You were born foolish and foolish you will die. You allowed lust to deceive you, to wrench you away from the Great Work and our family. Will lust make you slash a blade through every oath you have ever sworn while you smile benignly into Death's shroud?"

"It's not Death's shroud, Salazar," Sol replied, evenly, the grin waning. "It's your own. My fear for you outweighs my fear of the knife in your hand. I see it in your eye, brother. All your unhappiness to come, all the tears, all the heartbreak and the bloodshed. I may die tonight, but your death will last a great deal longer than mine."

A night creature bayed to the north, a howl like a dying soul. Salazar narrowed his eyes. He knew Maugrim was watching, their mother's slithery, sycophantic servant. He detested werewolves; their foul stench and mad taste for blood, fuelled by the worst of man and beast struggling inside them.

The howl, he realised, was a warning. The Norsemen were coming up the Temes, no doubt. The screaming was faint at first as the shock and terror began to catch like fire through the homes of whichever village was being raided this time. Soon those damned Barbarians would be here with their own wizards and their own magic. True, there were few witches and wizards among the Vikings and the Danes who could perform decent sorcery, and fewer still who measured up to a Slytherin's hand, but the Norsemen were relentless and had a penchant for using giants in their violent raids. Neither did they fear death; they relished in it. To die on the battlefield was an honour, not a tragedy.

The red glow of burning thatch lit the sky to the East. For a moment, he watched the reflected glimmer on the blade of his dagger, highlighting its goblin craftsmanship: a serpent forming an "S" with an apple in its mouth, its body pierced by an arrow. The Slytherin crest. The blade itself was so sharp that you might not notice if it cut you, not at first.

The screams grew louder.

"Poor souls," said Sol, pityingly, his gaze shifting towards the East.

"They're only Muggles. No more than animals." Salazar sneered. "You care for them so much? You must do, to desire marrying one and shaming your kin."

"I see no difference between us."

"Then you are bloody blind," he spat, venomously.

His brother gave an indifferent shrug. Salazar grunted, a sound of frustration, the only emotion he allowed his brother to see. They were nothing alike, his twin and he. Sol was bright, sociable; a frivolous man who enjoyed plentiful feasts and loved the old stories. He was everything about life that made it worth living and Salazar loved and hated him for it. When Salazar entered a room, people were uncomfortable, or troubled, or found their voices unaccountably lost. There was something about the dark man that felt _not quite right_. He was like a serpent wearing a thin disguise, a borrowed human skin.

But tonight, it was Salazar who was troubled. He had killed numerous men and women. He had even killed children. But he had never killed a brother.

He lowered his voice, spoke in hurried, low tones. "I will ask you once and once only. Go on your knees. Beg for your life and renounce your ways. Leave your wife. Drown your child. Go to Hybernia, it's the only land she fears. If you do not-"

"I am not our mother, Salazar," Sol cut him off sharply. "I do not order the death of my children."

"She grieves you."

"She grieves herself!" he yelled, and for the first time Salazar could feel his twin's anger bubble. "You know what our mother is. Grief will not melt her tears as they do mortal men. It will harden her. And she will _destroy_ you."

The hollow cries and sounds of battle cut between them as men and women lost their lives to the Vikings' brutality. Another warning call from Maugrim sounded, this time at a higher, uneasy pitch.

Salazar stepped closer. "Then you've made your decision. You choose death."

Sol shook his head. "That was not my choice to make. The Norns have already made their decision, and I was but their instrument. Just one more branch on the Yggdrasill. The decision to spill my blood is all yours, Salazar. All yours."

"You will not fight me then?" asked Salazar, his voice dripping with venom. "You will willingly lie down and _rot?"_

"Oh," Sol began, with a small smile, "I don't know about that." And he drew the small seax from his belt.

The action incensed Salazar, made the pure blood in his veins boil with anger. He should have guessed his brother would not use magic. Sol had to have known the only chance he had of winning against his brother was by using magic and still, with that knowledge, refused to take up his wand.

"One last request, brother," said Sol, weighing the seax in his hand. His eyes sparked in the dim glow of the eastern fires. "Will you grieve me after I am dead?"

But he had no reply. And Salazar moved through the night like a snake and raising his right hand, the hand holding the serpent knife, took him in the throat, drawing out life like a poison. He did not feel the tip of the knife tear flesh and pierce muscle. Only saw the blood; its dark contrast against the crisp snow.

Sol's body felt limp against his brother's chest, silent and choking as blood filled his windpipe. The hand that held the seax began to loosen, but Salazar closed it tight around the blade, for then Sol would find Odin's hall, the feasting hall of the dead where all the warriors of the world went. And he rocked the body in his arms long after the eastern fires burned out, and the screaming died and Maugrim stopped howling.

And he did not smile when it was over.

**oOo**

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Notes for this Chapter

**Ouroboros:** the symbol of the tail-devouring snake, forming a perfect circle**  
River Temes:** River Thames in London**  
Wessex:** Mediaeval South-West England**  
Seax:** A short knife/cutting tool**  
Fens:** Low-lying country, often swampy marshlands**  
The Slytherin Crest:** The serpent eating an apple and pierced by an arrow is the 'Serpent Seal' or the mysterious 'Seal of Cagliostro. It has links to the Great Work i.e. the philosopher's stone, the quest for eternal life.**  
Hybernia:** Mediaeval Ireland**  
The Norns:** The 3 Norse Fates, Urd, Verdandi and Skuld**  
Yggdrasill:** The World Tree**  
Odin's Hall:** Better known as 'Valhalla'

I really hope you liked the first chapter. Please review and let me know what you think; all critique is welcomed!


	2. Godric Gryffindor

**A/N:** Ok, so my Founder's Timeline officially makes no sense as of this chapter. Damn damn damn. Don't you hate it when a story runs off without you? People who have read the latest Twin Vice chapters will probably catch some links in this chapter. Pint of butterbeer to anyone who guesses who the messenger who came to Rowena was, haha!

Cheers for all the very kind reviews guys! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

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_Don't you think it right  
I should go and see my mother,  
Whom I left on her own  
In the wood called the Waste Forest?_

- Conte du Graal, Chrétien de Troyes

**Ouroboros**

Godric Gryffindor

The snow was blinding, the wind a devil's roar across the field where swords clashed and giants thundered, tossing men like ragdolls over the battlefield. Magic was not always a weapon against steel, as many an arrogant young warlock had discovered to his end, blood spattering bright from their nostrils as they took the sharp end of a Norseman's sword through their gullet.

You had to have more than magic on your side in war, thought Godric. You had to have instinct, daring, courage, for all that he despised his enemy the Norsemen were no cowards. They were half beasts, charged full of bloodlust and savagery, but they were men born of the deep, dark places of the world – rough seas and ancient Thule – and that kind of magic bred a warrior to be reckoned with.

Godric tossed his head back and roared a battle cry that bled into the wind, and charged like a boar across an icy field of bodies stiff with arrows, his raw hands wrapped around the shaft of his sword: straight, broad, two-edged and pointed at a giant's Achilles' tendon. He slashed like a great cat, the sword an extension of his ferocity, and the giant toppled like a mountain, crushing unnamed soldiers beneath its vast weight. He kept moving then, charging and slashing in single strikes, dropping Norse raiders like leaves. Godric need not have spent the three hours that previous night lovingly sharpening the blade of his father's sword, _Flambard_; the sheer power behind his blows was enough to break a man's shoulder and crush his collar bone. Not one Norseman cowered under his charge; each gladly met him in battle, took his sword in their belly or his dagger in their eye and Godric grinned through bloody teeth, both hating and loving his enemy at once.

For three hundred years the Norsemen had been invading Anglo-Saxon Wessex. Godric was a Devonian, a Celt, and even now found it hard to think of Devon as a part of that Saxon Kingdom, despite the borders having fallen many years ago. Once the Danes had provided tactical support to the Celtic lands of Cornwalum and Devon by raiding Wessex, and weakened the authority of the Saxons. Those days were long gone and now he was part of a surge of Saxon Britons in their charge against the bloodlust and ferocity of the Norsemen with their ice giants and rune beasts born of the bitter northern wastes.

When the battle ended, the wind howl dropped like a slaughtered wolf. Steam rose from bodies half-embedded in the snow. Thurl quickly ordered the soldiers be stripped of their weapons and wares – swords, spears, axes, bows and arrows were all highly coveted, particularly in these times when there was always an enemy around. Wizard corpses had to be treated with more care. They would be gathered and cremated, and buried alongside their crudely carved wands with their toes pointing to the north so that their wandering souls could not return from death.

Camp was set up quickly. The Norsemen's wizards who had hailed the storm had not invited the cold and in the dead of winter the air was bitter as the grave.

Fat Eldred squatted beside him, cleaning his wet blade on a scrap of cloth, then with double care secured his wand in his belt beside his seax. He patted it with one large, hairy hand, the tip of the crudely oak-hewn wand sparking lightly in reply. He caught Godric's eye and smiled grimly.

"Fine sodding way to start a sodding mornin'. Not that you'd give a toss. Every time I saw you out there you were grinning your head off like a boy taking his first step into a whorehouse. I nearly had my throat bled dry five times back there, but you, young Godric, you fight like you was never meant to be off the battlefield," Eldred remarked sullenly. "You and that flaming sword, if you pardon the pun, ran through at least twenty-five men, not including that giant. Yes," he shot Godric a quick, sharp look that was not entirely bereft of humour, "I noticed. Pretty hard not to. I was almost under the fat bastard."

Godric grinned. "Sorry, Eldred."

"You need to be careful, young Godric." He lowered his voice, his eyes on the Saxon soldiers milling around the tents. "You've not done any good in impressing the Muggles. I'm telling you, if you was a soldier and not a wizard the army'd have you lashed fifty times for breaking ranks and charging head on like a reckless boar."

Godric raised his chin, unabashed. "Thurl was happy. And it worked, didn't it? I saw an opening. If we hadn't charged when we did we'd have lost the element of surprise and that's the only thing we have over Vikings."

Eldred shook his head and wiped a hand over his face with a groan. "You're going to die before you're a man."

"I'm already a man," Godric retorted firmly. "And dying on the battlefield is all I ever want." He fingered the amulet of Thor's hammer around his neck.

"Man indeed," the elder wizard scoffed and snorted. "Seventeen makes not a man."

"I could have been married four years ago!"

Eldred snickered. "Oh yes? And what would you have done with your fair bride at thirteen with your balls barely dropped?"

Godric flushed and scowled, and turned his back on the older wizard, cradling the Flambard in his lap, lovingly. "You were just born old, Eldred."

"Aye. And thank Merlin one of us was," said Eldred curtly.

Eldred Theodulf was a stocky grizzled wizard, short of stature and bravado, but steadfastly loyal. His grey eyes were mere creases from years of glowering at his young wards or staring at the horizon waiting for the raiders to come. He was a helmsman, tutor and friend, the dearest Godric had. He was also a giant pain in the arse. In comparison to Godric, Eldred was the flat side of a sword and had never understood why Godric rarely drew his wand in battle. He, like many others, believed Godric had developed a certain dislike of magic over the years. After all, tensions between magic and non-magic folk had been growing ever since Charlemagne's age, and it was this tension that had prohibited Godric from becoming a real soldier.

Thurl, his general, had conscripted Godric to fight against the invading Norsemen as a wizard. Nevertheless, in battle he rarely lifted his wand and never against a Muggle. A wand was one thing, but only through steel could you truly read your enemy and feel your opponent's strength as the dance macabre began – the hunter and the hunted, the devil and the knight. Who was who would only be discovered when the dance had finished.

That night they supped and swapped stories, Godric being well versed in the old tales, while the winter raged outside the camp. The mood was light and the fires burned brightly. They had only lost three men that day. Having caught the Norse raiders off-guard the battle had been a quick one, and Thurl hailed Godric for his instincts and courage. As the ale flowed and the night wore on, a hazy fog drifted over Godric's senses. Eventually, unable to fight it any longer, his eyes began to close and the sound of Fat Eldred attempting to sing became a distant hum...

"The foolish soldier sleeps by night when the wise man knows too many eyes are open by day and fair few by dark, when eyes are needed most," said a female voice, rich as cream and honey. "What can ail thee, knight-at-arms? So haggard and so woe-begone?" There was a mocking lilt in her tone.

Godric opened his eyes and wondered if he was still asleep. A tall unsmiling woman stood over him, full beautiful and light-footed, and in his haze he thought she might be one of the Fey folk. She wore a sword at her belt and a wand tucked close beside it. She was simply, but richly dressed and her skin was pale as the moon. Her hair was long, the colour of velvet night, and when she moved it rippled like a black pond. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Wild, dispassionate eyes ranged over him, through him, under him. Her gaze was like something sold and real, gliding through his mind. Godric shivered with unease and struggled to sit up, feeling rumpled and uncomfortably aware of the crusted flecks of blood on his face and garments.

"Who are you?" he garbled through dry mouth. "Who do you owe fealty to?"

The woman tilted her pointed chin upwards. "I am Rowena Ravenclaw. I owe fealty to the Scots."

Godric blinked incredulously. "Rowena Ravenclaw?" he stammered. "_The_ Rowena Ravenclaw? The greatest witch in all Scot-land?" He could barely keep the grin from his face and it took every ounce of pride he had not to shake her hand vigorously. "You've come a long way, my lady. My general will be happy to entertain you. What is your quest here?"

"To find you, it would appear," the woman said flatly, with a slight sneer. She did not seem impressed with her findings.

He frowned. "You know me?"

"No more than you know me."

"Then – how?" he asked, with the slightest slur.

Rowena looked at him almost pityingly, as though she had something very difficult and complicated to explain to a small child. She took a seat on a pile of skins across from him, her wild eyes never leaving his. "Three months ago a messenger came to me and my kin with a warning: Darkness is happening. The Unseelie Court are returning. With the fellowship of men and magic breaking, the people of this land are in grave danger. Find the sleeping knight-at-arms with flaming sword and hammer at breast, and give to him this grail quest."

Godric's heart drummed in his chest so hard that for a moment he was unable to speak. When he found his tongue again, he blurted urgently, drunkenly, "Of course! Tell me what your messenger wants of me and I shall take his quest!"

Rowena quirked her perfectly shaped lips at him. "You would take a quest before knowing its subject?

He nodded and grinned fiercely. "Doing what has to be done is the mark of courage."

"Or the mark of foolishness," she remarked, and then, as though she had noticed the tiny hint of emotion she had allowed expose itself, clamped her mouth shut. The slight pout had revealed her youth to Godric momentarily, who gazed at her with burning intensity. "Merely agreeing to this request is not enough. You must wish to. With all your heart. More than life, you must wish to."

And then she knelt close to him, her red lips so close to his ear that Godric could taste her breath on his tongue, and she said very softly, "Do you remember the tale of Percival, the wise fool, who left his mother to become a knight and sought the Grail from the Fisher King?" Rowena pulled back a little, her wild gaze questing, moving, exploring behind his eyes. Long fingers traced the hammer at his breast bone. "You have a long way to travel through the wastelands, Godric. There you will walk for fifty years through forests of lawless men. You will weep and you will bleed, and you will die, and you will have terrible thoughts in your heart." A strange smile was in her wild eyes now and as she spoke her hair drifted around her beautiful head like tendrils or fronds caught in a lazy summer breeze. "The way back to the Grail is long and hard, and fraught with dangers no sword can cut through. With this knowledge, do you still accept?"

He leaned forward, intent. "I wish it. More than life."

**oOo**

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Hope you like it! Any and all crit is very welcome and very much appreciated.x


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